


Ambush

by shadowrogue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Married Couple, POV Zevran Arainai, Post-Canon, Rogue Warden (Dragon Age), Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29402466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowrogue/pseuds/shadowrogue
Summary: One word prompt: rescue.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Male Mahariel, Zevran Arainai/Male Warden, Zevran Arainai/Warden
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Ambush

**Author's Note:**

> I got writer's block thirty pages into the multi-chapter DA2 story I'm working on. So I thought I'd take a break from it and show my badass Dalish warden some love.

"Ah yes, a knife to my throat. How original."

Zevran rolled his eyes, pulling at his wrists. The ropes were tied loosely enough that he could easily slip out of them, but his own sabers were all the way across the clearing next to the tent he still hadn't set up - much too far to run without first engaging in a fight. He weighed his odds. His hand-to-hand combat was better than most, but hand-to-blade in any scenario usually didn't end too favorably.

 _Damn_.

He glanced left and right, assessing the rather precarious situation he'd landed himself in. There were six bandits in total surrounding him, and each one was uglier than the last. Together they looked as though they shared approximately twelve teeth and one brain. Their apparent leader was squatted next to his hip, proud of his successful ambush.

"What house do you hail from, boy?" he asked gruffly, grabbing a fistful of Zevran's hair.

Boy? Zevran was pushing thirty. Though he supposed he should take that as a compliment. Elves aged physically slower than humans did. The man mere inches from his face was undeniable proof of that. He looked ancient.

"I literally live in the woods," he replied flatly, nodding towards the few bags resting on the ground by his horse. "Just rob me and be on your way. A ransom wouldn't be worth your time."

"You're dressed too well to be homeless," the man countered suspiciously.

Zevran scoffed, amused as he glanced down. "Oh, these? Borrowed. You see, my husband and I were having dinner with the royals earlier, and Alistair _insisted_ we wear finery whilst inside the courts. Otherwise his bitch of a wife-"

The bandit gave him a drool stare.

"Fine. Believe me or don't, that's your prerogative. But while I'm on the subject, I feel I must warn you that my husband is not known for his docile temperament. Should he return and find me like this...well, let's just say I hope you've made peace with the Maker."

The man barked a laugh, pressing the point of the knife into his skin. "Funny. I feel like the odds are slightly in my favor, given the circumstances. Now, if I were you, and I'm glad I'm not, I'd shut that pretty little mouth of yours and-"

A hot splatter of blood suddenly struck Zevran's face. He glanced up, watching as the bandit slowly collapsed, an arrow embedded in his throat. His heart swelled, relief flooding through him like a rush of cool water.

_That's my warden._

"Pft. I tried to warn them," he mumbled to himself, watching the man beside him twitch once before going still as stone, "Alas. They never listen."

There was a clamor then as the other bandits drew their weapons, swords and maces held high, armor clinking as they crouched defensively and scanned the trees for the source of the arrow.

In the foreground there was a blur of motion amongst the low-hanging branches of the pines. Zevran himself wouldn't have seen it had he not known what to look for.

Then it was as if the gates to the Black City themselves had burst open. Mahariel leapt down from one of the trees above, a truly terrifying sight as his black cloak spread to either side of him like the wings of a great dark beast. His bow in hand, he nocked an arrow in mid-air, releasing it with a harsh battle cry as he landed on one knee. The arrow struck down its target mercilessly, its poison-coated point easily piercing their thin chest plate, and before Zevran's eyes could even follow the movement, Andrien had already rolled to the side and loosed three more arrows, dropping each of his selected victims to the frost-covered dirt without so much as a single hair falling out of place.

 _Show-off_.

Though after battling an archdemon, Zevran supposed this sort of thing was child's play to the famed Hero of Ferelden.

A balding man with a mace approached him from behind, his heavy iron weapon raised towards the sky. Zevran watched in admiration as Andrien's ears twitched, listening to his steps. At the last possible moment he dropped his bow to the grass, reaching for one of his short swords. He drew it swiftly, turning on a dime and driving it up the man's belly. The tip burst from his face in a geyser of gore, a guttural scream cut off mid-breath as he was all but decapitated.

Witnessing such a grisly sight, the final bandit dropped his broadsword to the ground, slowly backing away from the Dalish elf with his palms held up in surrender, a nervous sweat breaking out on his pale face as Andrien matched him step for step, stalking him like prey.

Though his lover wasn't equal to the human man in height, the rogue still seemed to tower over him. The way he carried himself was as confident as it was intimidating, shoulders drawn back and head held high. The bandit cowered, stumbling backwards and falling to the ground.

"P-please. I promise - I'll go! You won't ever see me again!"

Zevran almost felt sorry for the poor bastard. Once upon a time, he too had found himself in that same, harrowing position; staring up into Andrien's dark, narrowed eyes, the threat of death looming over his head (quite handsomely). Alistair had just knocked him over the temple with the brunt of his shield, and as the world had faded in and out view, he hadn't even registered Andrien to be an elf. He'd thought him to be a Blighted rage demon.

In his clan, they'd called him Banal'ras - loosely translated to Shadow. He was as quick as he was silent, and back then his black hair had been long, almost completely obscuring his face. He'd been their best hunter, as well as their strongest warrior, a master of both blade and bow.

He could have easily been a Crow. If Zevran didn't know any better, he'd say his paramour had been trained from birth in the art of assassination.

A wet gurgle bubbled in the man's throat as Andrien seamlessly dropped a dagger down from his dark sleeve and flicked it with his wrist, embedding it in his flesh.

"May the Dread Wolf take you," he sneered, the baritone of his voice sending a chill down Zevran's spine.

The swordsman fell backwards with a deafening _thump_ , the clearing left deathly silent in the wake of the party's slaughter.

After taking a deep breath to settle himself, as he often did after a fight, Andrien turned to face him. The eyebrow above his blind, scarred eye was raised in judgement, his skin splattered in blood. Zevran watched as a single red drop dripped down from the metal griffin that fastened his cloak. He looked rather unimpressed.

"Aren't you supposed to be some fearsome, wanted killer?" he said dryly, bristling as he folded his arms across his chest.

"I had a plan!" Zevran stated matter-of-factly, "One you so rudely interrupted, I might add."

He sat up, twisting his wrists, loosening the rope until he was able to grasp the edge of its knot with his fingertips.

"Right. Of course you did. And you're still wearing that peculiar shem get-up because…?" he asked with a wave of his hand.

Zevran felt his bindings unravel and fall to the ground. He brought his hands out in front of him, rubbing at red marks they'd left.

"My armor was designed in Antiva and, in case you didn't notice, there's still snow on the ground!" He pinched the front of the coat he was wearing. " _This_ is wool."

"...so you were cold?"

Zevran stood up, shrugging his shoulder nonchalantly as he strode across the camp, reaching for his harness and sabers. He stiffened as he felt heavy fabric drape softly across his shoulders. The scent of pine clung heavy to the fibers, mixed with that of river water and herbs.

"You know...this is also wool," his husband said quietly, a teasing smile creeping up into his voice as his arms wrapped around his waist, "and I find I rather like the way you look in my clothes. More so than Alistair's, that is. "

Zevran chuckled, leaning back against his chest with a weary sigh.

"I would have been fine, you know. I've talked myself out of far worse situations." He turned in Andrien's arms, a cheeky grin on his face. "I got _you_ to let me go, didn't I?"

Andrien's smirk was wicked as his hand dropped to Zevran's hip and squeezed it.

"Yes, you did. Though you didn't stray very far, did you? Four years later...and yet you've never left my side. Not even once."

Andrien's voice had fallen unusually gentle, his hard expression softening as if in disbelief. Zevran cradled his cheek in his hand, thumb brushing the swirls of vallaslin along his jawline, his eyes drawn to the glimmering, golden earring hanging from his pointed ear.

"And I won't, amor," he vowed quietly, "Not now, not ever."

Andrien smiled sadly, leaning into his touch. "I can't run away from what I am. The Deep Roads _will_ lay claim to me eventually. What then, vhenan?"

Was that even a question? Zevran kissed him passionately, backing him into the nearest tree, his leg sliding up between Andrien's knees. It was a change in their usual dynamic, taking the warden by surprise as his wrists were suddenly pinned above his head against the trunk. The Dalish elf was breathing heavily as the assassin finally pulled away, his good eye dilated in anticipation, his parted lips sweetly swollen.

"Then we will go down fighting... _together_ , as we always have," Zevran said firmly, choking back a wave of emotion. He leaned forward, burying his face against the side of his husband's neck to hide his watering eyes. He knew their time was limited, but he tried his best not to dwell on such grim matters. "In the meantime, I suppose we will just have to live every moment as if it is our last."

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments appreciated!


End file.
